Our Bed

I always think of this as "our bed" - even though you've never been in it. Even though you've never even seen it. It's still ours. Our bed: that's what I call it, so to me, that's what it is. I call it ours, because I stole the money from you to buy it. That makes it part yours, part mine. Some might argue more yours than mine, since all the money to buy it came from you. But that's a jaundiced view, and one that ignores all the work I put into getting this bed: going to stores. Looking at various beds, picking out the nicest one. Delivery arrangements. And of course, stealing the money from you in the first place. You didn't make it particularly easy.

You never knew I was stealing money from you, I know. It wasn't in retaliation, a one shot thing late in the game on the way out the door because I knew no other way to hit out at you. No, it was more just something I did, built up after long habit. I've always stolen from the ones I've loved. Not items and such, I'm not a kleptomaniac! Just money.

I save it up, mostly. I don't have a drug habit or a fashion habit or anything like that to support. I don't really spend enough to justify stealing money. So I save it.

I don't know why I'm telling you this except, I feel like after everything that happened...I don't want you to blame yourself more than you should. I feel like you blame yourself. I want you to know that you're not the bad one. Or at least, not the only one.

It's not just the stealing. I've also been known to lie. From time to time, like to make someone feel better?

But they're not often very convincing lies.